It was an order of service, folded in half lengthways: IN LOVING MEMORY OF ALBERT PEARSON in gothic script above a photograph of a beady-eyed grey-haired man in full dress uniform.
Buried him Monday in Clydebank. Nice service, very upbeat. Horrible sausage rolls at the reception. Henry tugged at the lapels of his black suit. Hence the?
Dr McDonald fidgeted with the newspapers covering the breakfast bar. You weren t trying to kill yourself?
Oh, I ve thought about it. After Ellie passed I thought about little else. But maybe not quite yet. He gave the ancient dog s ears another rub. Sheba would miss me, wouldn t you, girl? Couldn t do that to her, she s all I ve got left.
Sheba s back end lowered to the floor, and she sat there with her chin on his knee, gazing up at him with milky eyes, dribbling onto his trousers.
Henry swished a mouthful of coffee back and forwards through his false teeth. Swallowed. Albert and I used to meet up a couple of times a year and chew over the cases we never managed to solve, trying to work out what we missed. A six-year-old girl strangled and dumped at the side of the road when her parents couldn t pay the ransom. The accountant who died in the Royal after someone cut off his hands. The family of four on holiday in Dingwall, battered to death in their caravan. The eighteen-year-old receptionist strung up by her ankles in Knapdale Forest and gutted He sighed, then threw back the rest of his coffee. Licking old wounds, then rubbing salt into them.
I laid the order of service on the worktop. The Party Crashers last psychologist screwed up all the notes, then topped himself.
All of them? Henry raised an eyebrow. How did he
Buggered the server too: nine years worth of interviews, assessments, profiles, the whole lot. There s nothing left.
A nod. Then Henry reached into the nearest kitchen cupboard and pulled out a fresh bottle. Grouse this time. Then you re in luck, Dr McDonald, you get to start with a clean slate. None of that legacy thinking from useless old farts like me to get in your way. He twisted the top off and threw it over his shoulder.
You re not drinking your coffee.
Silly old bugger. Is this about Denis Chakrabarti?
I don t do profiling any more. I retired. Henry pointed at the draining board, where half a dozen cut-glass tumblers were lined up on the stainless steel. Pass me three of those, will you?
I placed three glasses on the breakfast bar. Denis Chakrabarti wasn t your fault.
Yes he was. You know it, I know it, and the six little boys he raped and dismembered know it. Philip Skinner s widow knows it too. Henry slugged a generous measure into each tumbler, then held one up. A toast: to new beginnings. May Dr McDonald not make the same mistakes I did.
She stared at the glass in front of her. It s not even eight o clock yet, I mean it s a lovely offer, but I don t know if
If you re going to climb inside the mind of the monster, you should really go prepared, don t you think? A smile pulled at his cheeks; the glass trembled in his hand.
I put a hand on his shoulder, it was hard and knobbly beneath the jacket. Just bones and whisky in a funeral suit. Look talk it over with Dr McDonald, OK? Be a sounding board you don t have to do anything.
I don t
We need your help, Henry. If you re still blaming yourself for Chakrabarti, maybe this is your chance to redeem yourself.
He doesn t want to help, he doesn t want to have anything to do with the case, what am I supposed to do, I mean I can t
Talk to him. Work whatever freaky mojo you did on the ferry crew. Outside, through the shattered lounge window, Scalloway harbour glittered in the sunshine a bright-red fishing boat chugged out to sea, stalked by a cloud of whirling seagulls. Look, we don t have time to dick about up here, OK? Flirt with him, flatter him, dazzle him with your brilliance, I don t care: get him to help.
But he doesn t want to
Top of your class, remember? I pulled on my jacket. I ll be back in a couple of hours.
She sagged, stripy arms hanging by her sides. But, Ash
God s sake: you re worse than Katie, and she s twelve. I grabbed Dr McDonald s shoulders and spun her around, so she was facing the kitchen. Gave her a push. Now go.
She scuffed her Hi-tops across the carpet.
When she d closed the door behind her, I headed outside. Royce was waiting in the patrol car with the engine running. I squeezed into the passenger seat at least it was nice and warm in here. Tell me about Arnold Burges.
The constable pursed his lips, leaned forward, voice turned down to a whisper. Came up here from London four years ago: been hassling Dr Forrester ever since. We ve got him God, what, about twenty, thirty times for public nuisance and destruction of private property. But the Doc never wants to press charges. Daft, eh? I think he feels sorry for him, you know, after what happened to his daughter.
I pulled on my seatbelt. Drive.
